lamb named Mutton, who gradually turned into a sheep and wandered across the wide verandah of their cottage, shitting little round turds on the flowered parlor carpet; flocks of garish galahs, flashing flaming
WOMEN
waistcoats; small dark children tumbling with her in a dusty paddock; flies buzzing incessantly; her father’s hat, with corks hanging from the brim on strings, to keep the flies away; the winter rains drumming on the iron roof. She remembered a hand pushing damp hair off her forehead when she was half asleep. But she couldn’t remember her mother’s face. The only face she could summon was from a faded photo, sad and strained. A little girl, Hannah, clutched her arm, as though aware her mother was about to vanish.
“Why so somber?” asked Jonathan from the doorway, holding out a wrapped sandwich.
Hannah looked up. “I was just thinking about my mother.”
“That’ll do it.”
“Come in. Sit down. Thanks. Is this ham?”
Jonathan nodded his bushy gray head. “What’s happening?” He sat down on the tweed couch and unwrapped his own sandwich.
“The usual.” Hannah picked up half her sandwich. “Loss, sorrow, betrayal, and deceit.”
Jonathan smiled. Mary Beth appeared from the next office. She wore a high-necked ruffled blouse, Mao slippers, and generally resembled Little Miss Muffet after forfeiting her curds and whey to the spider.
“What’s wrong with you?” asked Jonathan.
“I’ve just realized I don’t like clients giving me all this power.”
Hannah took a large bite. Mary Beth was fresh out of graduate school and still thought real life was an ongoing seminar. Hannah knew the upcoming conversation by heart. A client had split with his wife because he thought Mary Beth had told him to. Now he was miserable and was blaming Mary Beth.
Jonathan was making all the usual responses about clients hearing what they wanted to hear, not having to come back, etc.
“Call it trust instead of power,” suggested Hannah between bites. “It’ll help you feel better.”
“It doesn’t matter what you call it,” said Mary Beth, leaning up against the doorjamb. “It’s still power.”
Hannah shrugged. “So be a veterinarian.” When they were interviewing, she hadn’t been sure about Mary Beth, who seemed a trifle earnest. But Jonathan insisted they needed another woman, someone young, with credentials as impressive as Mary Beth’s. It was hard to tell if she’d work out because she still had what Hannah called novice nerves, took everything that happened with clients too seriously and too personally. Sheer exhaustion would no doubt cure her of that.
“A client has to relinquish a certain amount of power for the process to work,” Jonathan was saying.
Hannah watched him look up at Mary
Beth with a patient smile. He felt Hannah was too harsh. Hannah felt he drowned people in honey.
They used to argue over this issue of power. But she was still convinced clients didn’t hand over any power at all. All they did was to use the therapist as a standin for the strong part of themselves, until they were ready to face their own strength.
Caroline went through the lunch line, taking salad and coffee. Holding her plastic tray, she glanced around the large, drafty tiled room. Diana was sitting at a table with Brenda, Barb, and Suzanne, all dressed in white uniforms.
Feeling no wish to be pleasant to Suzanne, who’d spent the past week lurking behind oxygen tanks in the halls to pop out for chats whenever Diana passed, Caroline walked to a table inhabited by Brian Stone in light green scrub clothes and plastic booBrian was a young surgeon whose wife had recently left him, taking their children to Boston without a backward glance. Caroline had assisted him several times in the ER, and they’d sometimes drunk coffee together between cases. She admired the delicacy and deftness with which he tied sutures, as though assembling a sailing ship in a bottle. He struck Caroline as a
WOMEN
waistcoats; small dark children tumbling with her in a dusty paddock; flies buzzing incessantly; her father’s hat, with corks hanging from the brim on strings, to keep the flies away; the winter rains drumming on the iron roof. She remembered a hand pushing damp hair off her forehead when she was half asleep. But she couldn’t remember her mother’s face. The only face she could summon was from a faded photo, sad and strained. A little girl, Hannah, clutched her arm, as though aware her mother was about to vanish.
“Why so somber?” asked Jonathan from the doorway, holding out a wrapped sandwich.
Hannah looked up. “I was just thinking about my mother.”
“That’ll do it.”
“Come in. Sit down. Thanks. Is this ham?”
Jonathan nodded his bushy gray head. “What’s happening?” He sat down on the tweed couch and unwrapped his own sandwich.
“The usual.” Hannah picked up half her sandwich. “Loss, sorrow, betrayal, and deceit.”
Jonathan smiled. Mary Beth appeared from the next office. She wore a high-necked ruffled blouse, Mao slippers, and generally resembled Little Miss Muffet after forfeiting her curds and whey to the spider.
“What’s wrong with you?” asked Jonathan.
“I’ve just realized I don’t like clients giving me all this power.”
Hannah took a large bite. Mary Beth was fresh out of graduate school and still thought real life was an ongoing seminar. Hannah knew the upcoming conversation by heart. A client had split with his wife because he thought Mary Beth had told him to. Now he was miserable and was blaming Mary Beth.
Jonathan was making all the usual responses about clients hearing what they wanted to hear, not having to come back, etc.
“Call it trust instead of power,” suggested Hannah between bites. “It’ll help you feel better.”
“It doesn’t matter what you call it,” said Mary Beth, leaning up against the doorjamb. “It’s still power.”
Hannah shrugged. “So be a veterinarian.” When they were interviewing, she hadn’t been sure about Mary Beth, who seemed a trifle earnest. But Jonathan insisted they needed another woman, someone young, with credentials as impressive as Mary Beth’s. It was hard to tell if she’d work out because she still had what Hannah called novice nerves, took everything that happened with clients too seriously and too personally. Sheer exhaustion would no doubt cure her of that.
“A client has to relinquish a certain amount of power for the process to work,” Jonathan was saying.
Hannah watched him look up at Mary
Beth with a patient smile. He felt Hannah was too harsh. Hannah felt he drowned people in honey.
They used to argue over this issue of power. But she was still convinced clients didn’t hand over any power at all. All they did was to use the therapist as a standin for the strong part of themselves, until they were ready to face their own strength.
Caroline went through the lunch line, taking salad and coffee. Holding her plastic tray, she glanced around the large, drafty tiled room. Diana was sitting at a table with Brenda, Barb, and Suzanne, all dressed in white uniforms.
Feeling no wish to be pleasant to Suzanne, who’d spent the past week lurking behind oxygen tanks in the halls to pop out for chats whenever Diana passed, Caroline walked to a table inhabited by Brian Stone in light green scrub clothes and plastic booBrian was a young surgeon whose wife had recently left him, taking their children to Boston without a backward glance. Caroline had assisted him several times in the ER, and they’d sometimes drunk coffee together between cases. She admired the delicacy and deftness with which he tied sutures, as though assembling a sailing ship in a bottle. He struck Caroline as a
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